


Altered

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Seduction, Bullying, Drama, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Flirting, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, Girl!Derek, Girl!Stiles, Handcuffs, Historical Inaccuracy, Hostage Situations, Hostage Stiles Stilinski, Humor, Jealousy, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Master/Servant, Medical Procedures, Mini!Stiles, Organ Transplantation, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Slash, Priest Kink, Priests, Promiscuity, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Short, Shrinking, Size Difference, Snark, Snippets, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valeting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An endless series of alternate universes in which Stiles and Derek find each other, be it in outer space or a boarding school or a bar in Victorian England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boarded

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is an independent short story set in a completely different world. Some are cliff-hangers; most are snippets. Depending on which chapters get the most enthusiastic response, I might consider expanding them into separate novels/novellas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boarding school AU.

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t like Derek, because Derek’s one of those snobs who hangs out with the rich kids, because Derek  _is_  one of the rich kids, and his parents have, like, donated an entire building to this goddamn boarding school. Except it isn’t a boarding school as much as it is a crazy rendition of  _Lord of the Flies_ , and there’s a complex hierarchy with guys like Derek at the top and poor scholarship students like Stiles at the bottom. So to speak.

Stiles is stuck wearing second-hand uniforms and ill-fitting blazers while Derek swans around in all his tailored glory, loosening the tie around his neck and putting his feet up on the dining table he and his cronies have claimed in the mess hall, because none of the teachers have the guts to tell Derek to behave like a civilized person and plant his shoes on the fucking ground. None of them  _dare_ , because the Hales have monopolized most of the power on the school board, and Derek knows that, and uses that, like the unadulterated douchebag he is. He’s obnoxiously handsome and refuses to shave his stubble and goes around acting like some kind of demigod, and Stiles loathes that, loathes it from the depths of his  _soul_.

It sucks because Stiles has to spend his lunchtimes in the school library, not just because he’s fond of books (which he is) but because the library is a safe place, a place watched over by the draconian librarian with a towering hairdo, and Derek’s pack of rabid wolves can’t maul him there. If Stiles takes a single step outside the library, though, he’s fair game. Derek tends to hang back with a lupine grin and watch Stiles get teased and called names, and it’s not like the teachers are gonna speak up for Stiles or punish anyone for bullying, so Stiles has long since given up.

With his scrawny frame and nerdy glasses and his sketchbooks filled with imaginary characters, Stiles is the archetypal outcast. It doesn’t even surprise him that he gets picked on; instead, he calmly devotes a portion of his daily schedule to charting out paths across the campus that steer clear of Derek’s usual hangouts.

What  _does_  shock him is that, upon returning to school for the spring semester, he’s assigned to Derek’s room.

As his roommate.

As his… pet rat? Readymade punching-bag? Chew-toy?  _Something_ , and Stiles tries to object to it, but of course any objections are pointless, so Stiles trudges to his new  ~~den of terror~~  room on the first day of school and unpacks his ancient, padlocked trunk. (Dad says it used to belong to granddad, decades ago.) All Stiles has to stow away are his neat but worn clothes and his dog-eared books, and he takes up less than a third of his allocated storage space. Derek’s side of the room, meanwhile, resembles a chaotic palace of video game consoles and CDs and DVDs and calendars of swimsuit models and posters of sportscars, and all that junk overflows into Stiles’s space, but Stiles knows better than to protest it, lest he get pummeled.

Not that Derek’s ever done any pummeling himself, and he actually  _stops_  his posse from pummeling people - apparently, all-out physical assault is a no-no - but there’s this theoretical threat hanging over Stiles’s head that he might get pummeled, someday. Stiles is acutely conscious of it, just like he’s acutely conscious of how Derek strips out of his T-shirt and just… drops to the carpet and into a round of impromptu push-ups.

Stiles stares.

"What’re you looking at?" Derek smirks as he finishes however many push-ups (Stiles is usually great at math, but he’s somehow lost count). Derek’s chest is gleaming with sweat, his nipples stiff in the cool air. "Like what you see?"

Stiles flushes red and snaps his gaze away, determinedly marching over to his corner of the bookshelf and digging out Dostoyevsky’s  _The Brothers Karamazov_. He sits on his bed, cross-legged, with the novel in his lap. “There was nothing worth seeing,” he mumbles into his book, keeping his eyes glued to it.

"Really?" Derek sounds amused. Damn him. “’Cause I could swear you were ogling me like you always ogle me in the changing room after lacrosse."

"Ha bloody ha," Stiles grits out, flipping pages aggressively. "What a fertile imagination you have."

"It ain’t as fertile as  _yours_. I remember that sketchbook we snatched from you the other day. Man, it was full of ripped guys in nothing but weird, crotch-hugging pants.”

"They’re called breeches," Stiles says, glaring at  _The Brothers Karamazov_. “And those guys were  _warriors_ , okay? Medieval warriors out to defeat mythical beasts.”

"Wow. Sometimes, I think you’re almost sane, but then you start spouting stuff that has me wondering if you’ve been smoking McCall’s weed."

"Shut up."

"I didn’t ask to stay with a loser like you, you know."

"Oh, trust me, I know."

"Do you?"

And suddenly, there’s a hand wrapped around Stiles’s right wrist, a strong, warm hand rough with a champion lacrosse player’s calluses, and Stiles has…

Stiles has stopped breathing.

He’s aware of his flush returning with a vengeance, heating his face and even his  _ears_. God, he must look so stupid, but he can’t -

He can’t get _free_. He’s trying, but Derek’s grip is iron-hard and unshakeable, and Derek’s laughing at him, scornful and superior, his thumb sweeping up the inside of Stiles’s palm and making Stiles shiver despite himself.

And then Derek lets go, but Stiles still feels the shadow of Derek’s touch on his skin, hot as a brand, a manacle of fire. Stiles feels as if he’s been bound, somehow, as if he can’t move.

But  _Derek_  is moving, back to his bed, retrieving his discarded T-shirt and pulling it on. His every movement is effortless, unembarrassed, like he hasn’t just -

Just - 

"Wh-why didn’t you demand to be put in another room, then?" Stiles says, after recovering his ability to speak. "They’ll do whatever you say."

Derek has slung a towel over his shoulder and is gathering up his toiletries, which means he’s heading for the showers, and the last thing Stiles needs is to imagine the bastard standing stark naked in a cloud of steam, hair slicked back and water coursing down his -

"Dunno," Derek shrugs, with an infuriating indifference. "Maybe I just wanted to see how much I could fuck with your mind."

Derek leaves, closing the door behind him, and Stiles almost crumples the pages of his novel in his fists before reminding himself to unclench them.

He absolutely hates Derek Hale.  _Hates_  him.

 

* * *

 


	2. The Rich and the Poor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A _Robin Hood_ AU.

* * *

 

Stiles stumbled back, not bothering to reach for a short-sword he didn’t have. He sucked at close-range combat, and he knew it.

Derek just followed him, his own sword drawn and glinting like a wolf’s fang, driving Stiles up against a rather convenient (for Derek) and inconvenient (for Stiles) tree. Great. Now, Stiles couldn’t lunge for his bow, which lay a too-far five feet away.

And Derek, all dark-miened and ferociously stubbled and with eyebrows heralding Stiles’s doom, seemed to know it, as well. Because he quirked his mouth in a grim, humorless smile, and pressed the tip of his sword against Stiles’s throat.

Stiles swallowed. “So, um, this is awkward. Me, robbing from the rich to give to the poor. You, robbing from the poor to give to the rich.”

Derek’s arm twitched; the sword left a scratch along Stiles’s throat, that Stiles could feel welling up with a drop or two of blood. Ticklish blood. “I don’t rob anyone. That’s your job.”

"Excuse me? Taxing folks that can’t afford to pay their taxes without, like, selling the last goat on their farms or their last pretty son or daughter into whoring? You’re stealing their  _lives_ , which is way worse than just stealing their money.”

"I am not here," gritted Derek, "to discuss economics. I am only here to enforce my uncle’s laws. Laws that you are in direct violation of."

"Yeah? Yeah, guess I am. Laws that prevent people from living on what they have. Laws that force them to give up every single grain in their granaries. Uh-huh. So, why ain’t I dead, yet?"

Derek’s eyes were narrow; the setting sun hit them and lit the pupils an unholy red. Derek didn’t even blink. “Where are the rest of them?”

"Um. Rest of who?"

"Your ‘merry men’. Where are they?"

"No clue what you’re talkin’ about. I run a solo operation, here. Shoot the wheels off the odd carriage carrying a portly nobleman or two, grab their gold, make a run for it. Just me. Don’t need anybody else."

"You’re lying."

"What, can you read minds, now?  _Sir_  Hale?”

"No," said Derek, quietly. "But my whips can. They’ll make you speak your mind, once you’re in my dungeons, like you deserve to be."

"Tough luck, getting me in there. You’ll have to stop me from running away in-between here and the castle, won’t you?"

"I’ll knock you out."

"Just so you know," Stiles said, brightly, "when I do escape, and I  _will_  escape, maybe you could, I dunno, take a tour of the villages? See what your Uncle Peter’s taxes are doing? And then, if you still think what I’m doing is stealing, come after me, and I’ll face you good and proper. In a fair fight.”

Derek raised his sword and swiveled it so that the hilt was poised above Stiles’s temple. “You talk too much.”

"Good thing you’re knocking me out, then. Although, I must warn you, I’ve been known to sleep-talk. A lot. With a lot of, er, pornographic detail, so maybe you should gag me, too. Just a suggestion, to save us both from the abject humiliation of living through a morning-after in which you heard things you shouldn’t have heard and I said things I shouldn’t have said."

Derek seemed momentarily overcome by Stiles’s nonstop babble. “I don’t need your advice on how to hold  _you_  captive,” he said, finally.

"No, seriously, man. Knight. Sir. It’s, like, four days’ worth of riding double-saddle on that fine mare of yours until we reach Knottingham Castle, right? And it’s not like you can keep knocking me out every few hours, not if you want me to have any brain-cells left over for your interrogation of me while you soliloquize villainously and in a manner that will reveal all your dastardly plans to me, before I make a daring escape and ruin every single one of them, so - ”

And then the hilt Derek had held aloft came down, hard, and a sudden blackness pooled in Stiles’s vision. He felt himself toppling forward onto Derek’s leather cuirass, and felt a gloved hand come up to cup the back of his head, which was the weirdest gesture he’d ever have expected from a captor,  _ever_ , except that he was too busy passing out to wonder at it.

 

* * *

 


	3. Pure of Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of two unrelated priest!Derek AUs. The other one, which I will post later, is from Derek's point of view and features dirty talk in a confessional. _This_ one is far tamer, and is from Stiles's point of view.

* * *

 

"Holy shit," says Stiles, and then backtracks at the expression on Derek's face. "Sorry. I, uh. Didn't mean to imply that shit is holy, or, um - "

"Shut up," Derek grunts, and hefts the torn, bleeding corpse they've just found over his shoulder.

"Aren't you supposed to be kind? Or, I dunno, forgiving? Or something? Instead, you sorta look like you've got a vendetta against the rest of the world, and believe you me, that's a pretty fuc - uh, funny attitude for a priest. If by funny, you mean tragic. Very, very tragic."

Derek ignores him, carrying the body across the street, into the church and up to the Chamber of Freaky Shit, or that's what Stiles likes to call it, anyway. It's just the rectory.

Stiles follows, because he signed on for Freaky Shit the moment he befriended Scott and, by extension, Scott's uber-antagonistic werewolf spirit-guide and/or priest. Werepriest. It's still boggles Stiles's mind, sometimes. "Seriously, you're like a walking thundercloud. A dramatic thundercloud. With the swirling cassock and the invisible war-drums, because, invisible violins? Way too pussy for you. Uh. By pussy, I totally mean cat. And by cat, I mean animal of a feline persuasion. Don't look at me like that! Here, kitty, kitty. Um. Werekitty?"

Derek glowers at him, thumps the body onto the single cot in the rectory (does Derek _sleep_ on that? Ugh, ew, corpse-cooties on the same bed he's gonna have to sleep in, gross), and proceeds to pull random bottles off the shelves.

"What're you doing?"

"Exorcising it," Derek answers, shortly. (He speaks!)

"Er, why? Is it to stop it from turning into a vampire? This poor sonovabitch was drained, wasn't he?"

"Yes," says Derek, "yes, and yes."

"Your ability to use actual words continues to astound me, especially when you sarcastically use the same word in quick succession in order to subtextually remind me of my stupidity. See? I understand you! I know you best!"

"Get out of the way," Derek commands, and Stiles scrambles back and finds a rickety table to perch on. Derek then focuses on drawing weird runes on the cadaver's forehead, throat and palms, before sprinkling each rune with holy water. His eyebrows are lowered in concentration, and his face, in profile, is as ruggedly handsome as something out of a Marlboro billboard in the midwest.

Stiles finds himself staring at it, as he tends to do, and wonders that Derek even lets him stick around like this, given that Stiles's constant and painful hard-on for Derek (okay, not _literal_ hard-on, because Stiles has enough sense to jack off before visiting his not-so-friendly neighborhood priest) has to be really obvious. Really, really obvious. Pie-in-your-eye obvious.

If Stiles didn't know better, he'd think that maybe Derek was into him, too, but - yeah, no. First of all, Derek's not interested in anybody, what with the whole vow of chastity thing he's got going on, and secondly, even if he _were_ interested in someone, it wouldn't be the gawky sheriff's son that keeps inexplicably hanging around a bad neighborhood that a sheriff's son definitely shouldn't be hanging around in, even if his BFF is from said neighborhood and has recently been turned into a werewolf and is suddenly a magnet for every goddamn urban legend known to man (or wolf). Technically, Stiles should only be visiting Derek with Scott, because: a) Derek is Scott's Alpha, not Stiles's, and b) Derek has nothing to do with Stiles, at all.

Except for the Deaton thing. They have _that_ in common. Father Deaton, from Stiles's own church, has been teaching Stiles how to not die when confronted by supernatural nasties out to kill him and his friend, and apparently, Father Deaton had once been Derek's mentor, as well. So maybe Derek's tolerance for Stiles is just a disciples-of-the-same-master, Padawans-of-the-same-Yoda, Karate-Kids-United thing, and Derek would do the same for a potted plant, so long as Dr. Deaton had once tended to it.

"I ain't a potted plant," Stiles blurts, then says, "sorry," when Derek darts him a scathing glare. Yikes. Mid-exorcism. Shut the fuck up, Stiles.

So Stiles just sits there, swinging his legs and watching Derek work, watching Derek's callused-but-skilled hands form runes and erase them, make crosses and arcane gestures, Derek's mouth parted as he murmurs prayer after quiet prayer, strings of incomprehensible Latin that're probably as far from dirty talk as it's possible to get, but the sound of _those words_ in _that voice_ is still enough to make Stiles flush in an incriminating way. In a whoops-is-that-my-hand-in-the-cookie-jar-because-I'd-rather-it-was-in-your-pants way.

Why does Stiles always fixate on the unavailable ones? First Lydia, then Danny, then Derek? Shit, Stiles needs a shrink. Or a drink. He needs to stare despondently into the gold-tinged bottom of a nearly-empty class of whiskey before knocking it back in a last, theatrical swallow, wiping his hand across his mouth and angsting in a manly fashion about his many unrequited loves. (And lusts.)

When Derek finishes the exorcism, no foul-smelling smoke leaves the body, which means that the vamp hadn't intended to Turn its victim, after all. Just a sad, ordinary, human corpse. Still, it's a good thing Derek played it safe and exorcised it, regardless, because if he hadn't, half the town might be getting their throats ripped out by a new vampire, right about now.

Stiles huffs. "Man, are you lucky my dad's on the force, or you'd be the number-one suspect for all the bizarre deaths, around here. I mean, if all these bodies keep showing up in your rectory with your runes on 'em, someone's gonna pull an _X-Files_ and try to find the truth that is out there. The very furry, very fangy truth. It'll be hardcore FBI shit, Father. You've gotta be careful."

But Derek just calmly washes his hands and then proceeds to wash the corpse, like Stiles's warning is pointless or like Derek doesn't understand basic fear. Like, oh, let's see, _the fear of being discovered_. By the government. That might conduct evil experiments on him. Fuck.

"Here," says Derek, and gives Stiles a pen and a sheet of paper.

"What?" Stiles snaps, irritable at having his warning go unheeded. He's studying Julius Caesar this week, and Stiles wonders whether Caesar's wife felt this annoyed when Caesar ignored her warnings and left home to die. Not that Stiles is Derek's wife.

"Write down your phone number."

"My phone number." Stiles gapes. "You. _You_. Just asked me for my phone number."

Derek rolls his eyes in that exaggeratedly sassy way of his - being that sassy should be a cardinal sin - and sighs. "I might need help carrying corpses if they keep piling up like this."

"Are you - are you reducing me to your _errand boy_? Your sidekick? The Robin to your Batman? Because I'm Batman material, dude. I'm no one's lackey."

Derek looks at him calmly. "You could always stop following me."

Stiles gulps. So Derek knows, then. Of course he knows. He's a damn werewolf; he can tell from Stiles's scent that Stiles digs him. Which means he's deliberately exploiting Stiles's feelings for him by getting him to _do_ things for him. And not the sexy things, either, but the icky things. Icky, corpse-related things. Derek knows Stiles won't stop following him, if for no other reason than being there if something particularly vicious finds Derek. "I couldn't."

"Thought so."

"Wow, you're such an asshole," Stiles says as he jots his number down. "If you weren't such a GQMF, nobody would even be in your congregation. You do know that at least ninety percent of your flock wants to bone you, right?"

"Thanks for your help," Derek says, blandly, when Stiles shoves the paper toward him.

"Save it for when I actually do some helping," Stiles retorts, and slams the door on his way out.

 

* * *

 


	4. Hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the movie _John Q_. Cora needs a heart transplant, but the Hales don't have any insurance. Derek resorts to force to get his sister the heart she needs. He takes the local hospital--and the mouthy orderly, Stiles Stilinski--hostage.

* * *

 

 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," says Stiles, raising his hands as the barrel of the gun presses against the back of his head. "Ease up, buddy. I ain’t goin’ nowhere."

"Damn right, you’re not," growls the scruffy-faced, leather-clad, disturbingly hot menace currently taking Stiles hostage. "Keep your hands in the air."

"Like I just don’t care?" Stiles quips, then winces as the gun digs into his skull. "Ow, man. Chill. I’m not stupid enough to try to get away."

"It’s smart-asses like you that think they can talk their way out of any situation."

"Wow, it’s like you  _know_  me. Is stalking one of your criminal activities? ’Cause it sounds like you’ve been stalking me.”

"Shut. Up." The man slings an arm around Stiles’s neck and drags him backwards and sideways, out of the supply closet that Stiles is so fond of because it serves as a convenient metaphor for his sexuality.

The moment they emerge into the hospital’s main hallway, all the nearby nurses and doctors gasp, and some of the patients sit up on their gurneys, gaping. A woman shrieks.

"Stay calm," says the kidnapper, like it isn’t perfectly normal for folks to panic when a gun-toting weirdo kidnaps an unassuming but charmingly attractive orderly.

Stiles is said charmingly attractive orderly, of course. “If you want them to calm down,” Stiles says in a hushed whisper, “you have to tell them you don’t plan on hurting anyone. Er. Unless you  _are_  planning on hurting someone? Specifically, me?”

"I told you to shut up," the guy hisses into Stiles’s ear, and then raises his volume to say to everyone: "I’m not planning on hurting anyone. Not if you cooperate with me and get me what I need. Where is Nurse McCall?"

"What?" Stiles asks. "You know Melissa?"

“ _You_  know her?”

"I’m, like, her honorary second son." For the first time since being ambushed by a psycho in a supply closet, Stiles feels a genuine flicker of anger. His voice hardens. "You will  _not_ hurt her. You get me? I don’t care if you blast my head off, but I’ll fight you to the fucking _death_  if you so much as look at her wrong.”

The kidnapper pauses. All over.

Shit. Maybe he’s gonna kill Stiles, right here. As a reward for Stiles’s useless bravery. Stiles must’ve been a lemming in his past life, given how brainlessly he leaps over conversational cliffs, only to be dashed against the handsome rocks below. This handsome bastard’s muscles sure are rock-like, anyway. Rock-like and potentially lethal. He can probably snap Stiles’s neck with a twitch of his biceps.

"I don’t intend to harm her," the man says, at last, still loud enough to be heard by the terrified crowd in the hallway. "I only want her assistance. She treated me, once, and I trust her. Tell her I’m Derek Hale, an ex-patient of hers. I need her to get the best cardiac surgeon on staff and arrange for an immediate heart transplant for my sister, Cora Hale. She’s being held in Ward 9."

Stiles blinks. And blinks again. “Wait, what? You don’t want money?”

"Am I holding up a bank?" the jerk drawls, sarcastically. His name—Derek Hale—is oddly familiar, but Stiles can’t place it, yet.

"No, you’re holding up a state hospital in the middle of the goddamn day. Is your sister on the transplant list?"

"Forget the fucking list," Derek grits out. "You must be familiar with what happens to people with no insurance and no money." The gun shakes a little, as if Derek’s shaking, too. His words are charged with anguish. "My sister’s still a kid. She’s only sixteen. But she’s going to die before her seventeenth birthday if she doesn’t get a new heart. So I’m getting her a new heart." The gun’s trigger clicks audibly. "No matter what."

Stiles quickly revises both his opinion of Derek and his strategic understanding of the situation. On the one hand, Derek isn’t a career criminal or a callous psychopath; his emotions can be appealed to. On the  _other_  hand, he’s desperate to the point of law-breaking, and that desperation makes him even more dangerous. If Stiles plays his cards right, he might be able to appeal to Derek’s sense of compassion and moral responsibility (Derek clearly feels responsible for his sister) to get Derek to take mercy on him. But if Stiles pisses him off or shows any signs of interfering with his sister’s treatment, Derek might just blast a hole in his head.

Hey, Stiles is a cop’s son. Tactical thinking comes to him naturally. He grew up listening to his dad talk about hostage situations and forensic psychology.

That aside, Stiles can’t bring himself to hate a guy trying to save a member of his family. If Stiles could’ve saved his mom by threatening some random orderly, would he have done it?

The answer is: in a heartbeat.

And, speaking of heartbeats, there’s a teenage girl in urgent need of them. A lifetime’s worth of them, hopefully. While Stiles is still a newbie to the hospital system, he’s read about the technicalities of transplant waiting lists and how they work. He can help Derek get what he wants—his sister’s good health—and help  _himself_  get what he wants. Freedom.

Not to mention, saving Cora would be an excellent outcome.

"Listen," he says, carefully, wiping all his natural playfulness from his tone and expression. "I sympathize with you, okay? I’ll do whatever I can to help you, but only if you don’t shoot anybody—including me." Stiles takes a deep breath. “Take your finger off the trigger,” he says. “Please. If you do, I’ll call Melissa.”

Derek is silent for a moment. After a tense minute of silence, he says: “Fine. But I’m still keeping the gun pressed to your head.”

"Fine," Stiles echoes, steadily. "Walk me to the desk at the entrance to this hallway. I’ll page her from there."

"The cops will be here anytime."

"All the more reason for us to hurry. Oh, and just so you know, I’m the sheriff’s son. Which means I oughta be able to hold them off, if you let me talk to him."

"No. Talking."

"Then no helping." Stiles shrugs. "Up to you."

There’s another silence. “If you say anything that sounds suspicious, you die.”

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Get me to the freakin’ desk already, will you?"

 

* * *

 


	5. Men of Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A medieval courtship gone wrong... or right.

* * *

 

 

Derek was not best known for his patience, and whatever patience he  _did_  have was soon robbed from him by a lanky, loose-limbed lout who insisted on accompanying Cora on her walks through the city’s gardens, eyes alight with wicked laughter as he corrupted Derek’s sweet younger sister with… with  _words_.

Derek could not be sure what those words were, but he was certain they were of entirely the wrong sort, given the playful, salacious smirk that curled the boy’s full lips whenever he caught sight of Derek following them from a distance, scowling at them.

Cora had explicitly asked Derek not to follow her, claiming to be embarrassed by her elder brother’s vigilance, but how could Derek possibly leave his lovely sister unchaperoned? Especially when there were such curs catching her scent?

One fine day - the sun itself was as infuriatingly merry as Cora’s companion - Derek finally deigned to intervene. The ne’er-do-well had gone so far as to wrap an arm around Cora’s waist, glancing back at Derek with a teasingly raised eyebrow, and Derek saw  _red_.

He marched up to the pair, disregarding Cora’s alarmed shout of “Brother, no!” and curled his fists in the bastard’s doublet, hauling him forward until they were all but sharing the same breath.

"If you do not cease harassing my sister," Derek hissed, "I shall have to demand satisfaction."

"Oh, please do demand satisfaction," murmured the rake, shocking Derek by cupping his face. "I promise to satisfy you."

Derek gaped.

Cora chuckled behind him, her alarm apparently replaced by… mirth?

What was happening, here?

"My name is Stiles, by the way." The rascal smiled winningly, an annoying dimple making an appearance at the corner of his soft, red mouth. Derek dragged his gaze away from it. "I’m the only son of the Head of the City Guard. Perhaps you have heard of him? Considering that you are in his employ? I expect he’ll be thrilled to see you being so protective of ordinary citizens, even by day, when you are not rostered to patrol the streets."

Derek spluttered, letting go and stepping back, until Stiles’s warm, sturdy hands fell away from him. “You’re - but my sister’s - does your father know that you’ve been corrupting impressionable young ladies?”

"I’m not  _impressionable_ ,” Cora put in, sulkily, but Derek ignored her for the moment.

"What. Were you doing. With my sister?"

"Conspiring on how to get you into bed, to be honest. She was most helpful."

Something very like terror gripped Derek’s very soul, as the avaricious gleam in Stiles’s eyes grew more pronounced.

And  _Cora_  had been the one to betray Derek to this degenerate? Because a degenerate Stiles clearly was, given his shockingly improper speech and the sinful flutter of his lashes as he looked up at Derek through them, as falsely coy as any skilled seducer. _  
_

Derek was definitely not dwelling on how skilled - or not - this seducer might be, for all the filthy promises that were no doubt waiting to be whispered into Derek’s ear, with a hot, devilish, silver tongue.

"I would fain join you for dinner," Stiles announced, presumptuously, as if Derek had issued an invitation instead of simply standing there, stunned.

"No," Derek said, immediately. His voice was strangely hoarse. "I haven’t invited you to my  _home_ , you thrice-damned - ”

"But I have," Cora chirped, bouncing on her feet like a child of five, amused by her brother’s agony, the little witch. Derek sourly reflected that the ‘sweet younger sister’ he had been so desperate to protect very likely didn’t exist. Not anymore. "And you would dishonor me by refusing a guest of mine, brother! Uncle Peter shall be displeased with you, too."

"A pox on  _Uncle Peter_ ,” Derek bit out, eyes narrowing. “If you appear at my door at any point,” he said to Stiles, “rest assured that you will not escape with your limbs attached.”

Stiles merely grinned. “Your threats are perversely charming, my friend.”

"That is only because you, yourself, are perverse," Derek snapped. "And I am  _not_  your friend.”

"But perhaps my lover?" Stiles asked, hopefully.

“ _Never_.”

Derek wrapped tight fingers around Cora’s arm and dragged her away.

 

* * *

 


	6. Of Human Bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles are handcuffed to each other. Shenanigans ensue.

* * *

 

 

"Why the hell am  _I_  handcuffed, too?” Stiles demanded. “I’m not the career criminal, here!”

"The only reason I broke into the bank vault was to get you out, Stiles." Derek tested the cuffs, and found them unbreakable. They were lined with silver, made to contain a werewolf, and the slow, dull burn of having all that silver against his skin made his gums itch with the need to sprout fangs.

"Oh, so all that flagrant law-breaking was for  _me_? I’m so touched. In fact, I am literally touched, because your hand is touching mine and it’s freaking me out, man. It’s ticklish because you won’t hold my hand properly, but it’s also clammy because I won’t stop sweating, and - and you can’t possibly blame all your criminal activities on me. Or on Scott. Might I remind you that you shut down the power station all on your own?”

"That was to save the town from the madman that wanted to blow  _up_  the plant. Better to shut it down than let it explode.”

"Right. So you’re Batman. Vigilante extraordinaire. Righteous defender of the masses. That’s great.  _Why_  am I handcuffed to you, again?”

"The Hunters probably assumed you were a werewolf, as well."

"Because birds of a feather flock together? Dude, this is the last time I accompany you on one of your missions of justice. Getting hurt the last time was scary enough, but now I’m  _stuck_  to you? That sucks. How am I gonna pee? How am I gonna jack off? How am I gonna  _eat_  with my dominant arm tied to yours?”

Why was Derek not surprised that Stiles thought about jerking off before he thought about eating? “We’ll manage,” Derek gritted through his teeth, hauling Stiles up with him. “Get moving. We need to escape and find Deaton. He’s the only Emissary we have, the only person who can undo this magic.”

"Um," said Stiles, going pale. "Dr. Deaton kind of mentioned going on leave to visit his family? Last week? So I’m not sure if he’ll actually be there."

Derek closed his eyes. Opened them. He did his level best not to imagine what it would be like, forced to endure Stiles’s company for an extended period of time. “Fine. We stay hidden in my loft until Deaton returns. My loft’s protected by sigils that should keep the Hunters out.”

"Hey, we can’t just disappear. What about my dad? He’ll be worried about me."

"Call him. Tell him the truth. He knows about werewolves, now, anyway."

"I don’t mean the werewolf issue! I mean the handcuffed-to-you issue! What if he misunderstands? What if he thinks I  _volunteered_? What if he thinks you’re my kinky boyfriend and this is some type of bondage-y thing gone wrong?”

"Let him think what he wants," Derek grunted, and yanked at the short chain until Stiles stumbled forward. There was something vaguely satisfying about having Stiles - volatile, uncontrollable Stiles - on a leash. Too bad it meant Derek had to be on a leash, too. "Our first priority is getting to safety."

 

* * *

 


	7. Needs Must

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles need to break into the police station again, but this time, Stiles wants to do the flirting.

* * *

 

 

"Wait, wait, wait," Stiles said, hauling Derek back. "Let me do it this time."

"Do what?" Derek asked.

"The seduction routine. I can  _absolutely_  flirt with that hot deputy.”

"And he can absolutely roll his eyes and tell you to beat it,  _because you’re his boss’s son_.”

"Uh." Stiles paused. "Forbidden fruit is the sweetest? Also, he’s into  _Star Wars_. We could always bond about  _Star Wars_.”

Derek sighed and pushed gently at Stiles. “Forget it. I’m doing this.”

But Stiles didn’t budge. “Nope. C’mon, man. It ain’t gonna hurt if I, y’know, try to charm him. I’ve been told I’m very charming. Maybe he’ll fall for my flailing instead of my non-existent suave flirting, but he’ll still fall.”

"And I’ll rip his throat out," Derek muttered, under his breath, as Stiles turned to blink at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," said Derek, letting his grin turn toothy and menacing. "But if you fail - and you  _will_  fail - then we’ll have to break into the police station the old-fashioned way, and if we get caught doing that, it’ll be your fault.”

"My fault. Gotcha." Stiles cleared his throat, straightened his shirt and ambled confidently into the station.

Derek watched with narrowed eyes as Stiles leaned against the front counter, quirked a smile at Deputy Parrish, and got another smile in return. A far too friendly smile.

"Fuck it," Derek said, and marched in after him.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Stiles said, when Derek materialized at his shoulder and dug his fingers into Stiles’s shoulder.

"I just remembered we have something to do."

"Yeah," Stiles hissed, low enough for only Derek to hear. "And I’m trying to do that something, so maybe you could scram?"

"Oh, hello," Deputy Parrish said. "You’re Derek Hale, the ex-con, right?" His voice was a little  _too_  polite. “May I ask what you’re doing with the sheriff’s son?”

"None of your business," Derek spat, pulling Stiles closer against him as Stiles spluttered.

"Allow me to remind you that Stiles is still underage."

"Yeah?  _You_  didn’t seem to recall that, a couple seconds ago.”

"On the contrary, I have a photographic memory." Parrish’s tone was downright icy. "I don’t forget anything. Especially faces. I  _never_  forget faces. Particularly those that’ve been on Wanted posters.”

"Why the hell are you guys talking about me being of age?" Stiles squawked, and then followed that up with, "Hey!" when Derek literally dragged him out of the station without so much as a word of goodbye to Parrish, who followed their departure with a suspicious gaze.

"What the heck were you doing?" Stiles said accusingly, the moment they were out, shoving Derek off him. "I thought  _you_  were the one who didn’t want to break in the old-fashioned way!”

"Change of plans," Derek said, without bothering to explain himself any further.

"Change of plans, he says," Stiles mumbled to himself, running a frustrated hand over his hair. "I get it. You don’t think I’m sexy enough to seduce  _anyone_ , or cute enough to, I dunno, distract them, or whatever, but - ”

"Shut. Up," Derek said, and yanked Stiles in to kiss him.

Several minutes later, Stiles was plastered against the hood of Derek’s car, with his legs trembling and his scent thickening with musk and sweat and his mouth a soft, bruised red.

"Oh," Stiles said, eventually. " _Oh_.”

"Yes, ‘oh’." Derek drew away and walked across to the driver’s side. "Now get in the goddamn car. We have a breaking-and-entering to plan."

 

* * *

 


	8. Bad Reputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a serial deflowerer. Stiles is a virgin ripe for deflowering.

* * *

 

 

Derek Hale has a Reputation. That’s right, it totally deserves the capital ‘R’. Apparently, Derek used to be just your average unbearably hot teenage dirtbag until one fateful party a year ago, when a friend of his joked about high school virgins and how they’d probably  _pay_  to have Derek de-virginify them, and Derek had shrugged and said, “They wouldn’t have to pay me. I like virgins.”

That’s what Derek is supposed to have said, anyway, and the rumor spread like wildfire through the school, because before long, tentative virgins started propositioning Derek all over the place, becoming less tentative with every successful attempt.

Nowadays, it isn’t rare to see nervous and hopeful virgins wringing their hands as they stutter through the clumsiest come-ons, even if it means confronting Derek in the middle of a crowded hallway. There’s no shame in doing it; hell, at least a third of the school’s population has done it, and it’s widely understood that being deflowered by Derek Hale is the best kind of deflowering anybody can hope for. The bastard is an expert at what he does.

Or so they say. It may not be true. Derek may just be an incredibly sexy urban legend. Whose jeans cling to his ass and to his very generous package in thin, delightfully worn denim.

As for Stiles, well, Stiles is yet another virgin desperate for a fuck, and while the thought of begging Derek to rid him of his virginity makes him flush with embarrassment, it  _also_ makes him flush with arousal. So what if he’ll be the 178529th notch in Derek’s belt? So what if that belt has more holes in it than Swiss cheese? It’s still a  _belt_ , and Stiles has imagined it tied around his wrists as often as -

Okay, no. Vanilla sex first, bondage later. Stiles has to plan this in  _steps_. Not that Derek’s likely to sleep with him a second time, since Stiles won’t be a virgin anymore, and Derek isn’t interested in folks whose cherries are pre-popped. He’s famous for it, by now; he never gives anyone a second chance, once he’s had them already.

But maybe, just maybe, Stiles will be different. Maybe Stiles will somehow end up being such a fantabulous lay that Derek will fall in eternal lust with him and will screw him at every available opportunity.

Yeah, like that’ll happen. But a boy can dream.

And so, on a Tuesday, shortly after lacrosse practice, Stiles turns the knob of his (intentionally cold) shower off and wraps his towel around his waist and approaches Derek, trying to act as though his heart isn’t pounding out of his ribcage.

Only two other players are left in the changing room - seniors, like Derek - but they roll their eyes the moment they see the blush on Stiles’s face, as if what Stiles is about to do is perfectly obvious.

It’d be humiliating, except it makes them leave rather quickly, and anything that gets Stiles alone with Derek is  _good_. Stiles is nowhere near bold enough to do this in public, the way some students can. _  
_

"So," he says, clearing his throat, wiping his clammy palms uselessly on his damp towel, which does nothing to dry them. "Uh. I hear, um. That you have a thing. For virgins."

Derek flicks Stiles a withering glance, occupied with toweling his own hair. He looks like a Greek god that’s emerged from a sacred pool, or something. Stray droplets glitter like jewels on his chest, and his nipples are stiff, dark points. Stiles stares at them, spell-bound.

"You don’t say," Derek deadpans, uncaring of the fact that he’s being ogled. Then again, being who he is, he must get ogled  _everywhere_.

"I’m, er. I’m a virgin," Stiles blurts. "Just for your information." Shit, this is  _not_  the eloquent, seductive speech Stiles had planned. He sounds plain stupid. He sounds  _desperate_ , and that - 

That must be Derek’s type, because he gives Stiles a slower glance, assessing him, surveying Stiles from head to foot. Stiles is acutely conscious of how insignificant his muscle-mass is, compared to Derek’s, and how unimpressive his physique is, as a whole. But, again, maybe Derek  _prefers_  them twinky and slender, because the corner of his mouth quirks in a shark-like grin.

"You don’t say," he repeats, but this time, his voice is lower, rougher.

Holy shit.

It’s happening.

It’s really  _happening_.

 

* * *

 


	9. Small Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets shrunk. Inspired by the stories of Thumbelina and Tom Thumb.

* * *

 

 

"Whoa. You’ve got calluses like mountain ranges, man." Stiles teeters on the pad of Derek’s palm before wrapping his arms around Derek’s thumb to steady himself. "Even your little finger is like the Washington Monument."

Derek frowns down at him, and Stiles gapes up at how fucking  _huge_  that frown is. The lines in Derek’s forehead are as deep as shadowed valleys. “I can’t keep carrying you like this.”

"Worried you’ll accidentally squish me, or something?"

"Or something," Derek huffs.

The gust of wind from that huff is almost powerful enough to knock Stiles off his feet; he clings even tighter to Derek’s thumb. It’s a nice thumb, Stiles reflects. Sturdy and broad. Manly.

"I’ll find you a container," Derek continues. "A matchbox, maybe."

"Oh,  _hell_  no. What am I, your pet rat? Well, ’scuse me, but I ain’t no Peter Pettigrew. You can’t lock me in a cage.”

"I have no idea what you just said."

"What I  _said_  is that you can’t put me in a box! How will I breathe?”

"I’ll poke holes in the cover," Derek says, reasonably.

"And what if I gotta pee? Sure, my bladder’s about as minuscule as a speck of dust, but it’s still a functioning bladder. And what about when I’m hungry? What’ll I do if you forget about me being trapped in that box and don’t feed me? I could  _die_  in there!”

"I won’t let you - ”

"Also, and you’re absolutely not allowed to mention this to anyone else, but I might have a slight case of claustrophobia. Very slight. So boxes are a no-go. Just put me in your shirt’s pocket and let me peek out of it every once in a while. At least I’ll be getting some fresh air. And I can bother you when I hafta to go to the toilet, so you can let me out, and I can poke you when I’m hungry, so you can sprinkle crumbs into my mouth. Like a baby bird. FYI, I’ll appreciate crumbs from Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups the most."

"Yeah, except for one problem. My shirt doesn’t have a pocket."

Stiles blinks at Derek’s… massive,  _massive_  pecs. Jesus Christ, they’re - they’re gigantic even from a normal person’s perspective, but from Stiles’s limited new view of the world, they’re downright Olympian. Stiles feels like an insect in the hand of a god. A sex god. Dressed in a… a particularly form-fitting Henley. Without any pockets in it. “Typical,” Stiles mutters. “All you care about is looking sexy. Not a single thought about, I dunno,  _utility_ , in case your emissary gets shrunk to the size of a lima bean and you need a pocket to carry him in.”

Derek scowls. “How was I supposed to know this would happen?”

"It’s not like  _I_  knew, either, Einstein! Do you even understand how uncomfortable I am now that I’ve noticed the shapes of your nipples through your shirt?”

"I think I should be more uncomfortable about that."

"Seriously, they’re bigger than my  _head_ , this is disturbing - and by that I mean, disturbingly arousing - ”

"Stiles. Focus."

"Okay." Stiles takes a breath. "Fine. Basically, the only pockets you can put me in are the pockets in your jeans. I can’t be in your back-pocket in case you, like,  _sit_  on me, and I doubt you want me literally clinging to the curve of your ass. Right?”

Derek makes an odd, strangled sound.

"The  _other_  option is either of your front-pockets, which, again, nope. Too close to your crotch, and you definitely don’t want people asking you if that’s a Stilinski in your pocket or if you’re just happy to see them. Er.”

Great. Stiles is thinking about Derek’s dick. That’s the last thing he needs to be thinking about, let alone how it’s longer and thicker than  _he_  is, and how Stiles could wrap his entire body around it and dip his tongue  _into_  the slit -

No. That’s… That’s  _weird_. Mucho weird. On the plus side, Stiles is so small that Derek probably can’t smell his hard-on. What a relief.

Derek seems pensive. “If you can hang on, I’ll set you on my shoulder.”

"What, like a pirate’s parrot? ‘Polly wanna cracker’? Nah. I’ll be too afraid to fall off. That, and we can’t let folks  _see_  me like this.”

"So I’ll just have to hold you in my fist."

"Gently! Very gently. Swing low, sweet chariot, et cetera." Stiles shrugs. "And next time you step outta your loft, make sure you’re wearing a shirt with a pocket in it."

"Don’t let go of my thumb."

Stiles clutches at it like the lifeline it is. “I won’t.”

 

* * *

 


	10. If I Get Lonely (I Might Need Your Help)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek is the property manager and handyman for the building girl!Stiles lives in. (P.S. Stiles is legal.)
> 
> The title is shamelessly stolen from Nelly Furtado's song, "Promiscuous".

* * *

 

"Oh, thank the lord," Stiles says, staggering toward the door when the bell rings, half-in and half-out of her T-shirt. She barely gets it on in time, and then she has to fiddle with the rusty lock, because everything in this ratty hellhole of an apartment is broken. Including Stiles’s  _brain_. “It’s been fourteen fucking hours since I called you, Mr. Olek, and I swear, if you don’t fix my air-conditioning, I’ll die of - ”

The door rattles open.

" - heatstroke," Stiles finishes on a squeak, because the guy waiting outside isn’t old Mr. Olek, and yeah, that’s absolutely heatstroke-worthy material. With the leather jacket and the stubble and the shoulders that look like goddamn rock formations. Stiles’s face is flushing just that fast, driving her already high temperature dangerously up, and it’s only Stiles’s tight grip on the doorknob that keeps her from embarrassing herself and, like, swooning. Or something.

About a million pick-up lines flit through Stiles’s mind, ranging from the corny (‘I guess the Weather Girls were right and it  _is_  raining men, ‘cause you’ve clearly descended from heaven’) to the even cornier (‘If I said you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?’).

But since the handsome stranger could  _also_  be a serial killer - theoretically - Stiles puts on her Serious Business face and attempts a vaguely suspicious once-over that  _does not_ linger on the man’s crotch. At all.

"And you are?" she asks.

"I’m Mr. Olek’s replacement."

"Replacement? Why? Mr. Olek’s been terrorizing our building with his scowl since the turn of the century. Or is he - " Oh, no. Surely not. Olek’s ancient, but he’s also the most stubborn bastard Stiles has ever had the dubious privilege of meeting. He couldn’t have died, could he? "Is he okay?"

"He’s fine. It’s just that he’s finally reunited with his estranged son - "

"The gay one?"

"Yes. And the son’s taken him home."

"How do you even know Mr. Olek?"

"He’s the one that trained me to be an electrician, years ago."

"So you’re our new handyman." Hallelujah! Hosanna!

"Derek Hale," says the beefcake, and holds his hand out for a handshake. "At your service."

"Service," Stiles echoes faintly, her reliably filthy imagination taking the word to places that resemble BDSM clubs. Very select BDSM clubs. Derek’s neck is almost too thick - too _powerful_  - to waste by hiding it behind a collar, but that’s exactly why someone would want to collar it. To keep the sight of that strong throat for themselves. And Derek’s hand, when Stiles takes it, is huge enough to crush granite into so much pixie-d

-dust. It's a pornographically massive hand, broad and hard, rough and callused and textured in ways that are just _made_ to be dragged across sensitive nipples.

"Yeah. Service." Derek quirks an amused eyebrow. "That's what you left those messages on my phone for, wasn't it? The aircon? Just show me where it is, and I'll be out of your hair."

 _I'd love to have you come_ on _my hair_ -

No.

"S-sure," Stiles says, and stands back to let Derek in. As Derek brushes past her, Stiles catches a whiff of aftershave and a quieter, deeper scent of musk, and it nearly undoes her.

She doesn't care if she isn't Derek's type; she doesn't care if Derek prefers, say, buxom waitresses from the south or petite bookstore owners with horn-rimmed glasses. Stiles has her own charms, androgynous charms, what with her tiny boobs and her long, lanky frame and her short, boyish hair and her skinny hips without a hint of softness to them - seriously, her hipbones are sharp enough to cut an unsuspecting interloper - and those charms have served her well in the past, if not in the _recent_ past. Damn, she needs to get laid.

Maybe she should start wearing clothes without holes in 'em, and stop wearing shapeless plaid overshirts that hang on her thin, curveless frame like coats on a coat-rack. Really _tacky_ coats on a coat-rack. She knows how to rock the gamine look for people who're into that, but it's been ages since she put any effort into ensuring the colors she was dressed in didn't clash, or that her hair didn't resemble a particularly messy sparrow's nest.

Personal grooming. Color coordination. That's where it's at. That, and having Derek over as much as possible.

Stiles resolves to attack the major appliances in her apartment with an axe, just so Derek can drop by to fix them. But that might be just a little too transparent. And pathetic. And creepy.

Instead, Stiles consoles herself by shaking Derek's hand _again_ , before he leaves, and promising to call him if the air-conditioning acts up again.

 

 

* * *

 


	11. The Colors of the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is a young nobleman. Derek is his valet. They hate each other. Or do they?
> 
> "The mind wears the colors of the soul, as a valet those of his master." - Sophie Swetchine.

* * *

 

 

Stiles is certain his new valet has it in for him. Derek deliberately lays out the very garments that Stiles finds distasteful—staid combinations of black and navy blue and dark gray—and then he forces Stiles into said garments, usually with a combination of unspoken but eloquent disdain for Stiles’s sartorial choices, and some strange magic by which he makes all the yellows and oranges in Stiles’s wardrobe routinely disappear, apparently due for sewing or mending or washing, despite the fact that Stiles hasn’t had the opportunity to wear them enough to warrant sewing. Or mending. Or washing.

Thanks largely to Derek Hale’s inestimable and flawless service. Although it’s less “service” and more “tyranny”.

According to Stiles’s father, the mayor of Beacon Hills, Derek comes highly recommended from the household of the Argents, though there are distasteful rumors surrounding the now-deceased Lady Kate and her alleged misuse of Derek when he was but a young lad. Lord Christopher has made it plain to Mayor Stilinski that the rumors are unfounded and that Derek is an “excellent man,” however one measures excellence in servants. Surely the most important quality of a servant ought to be _servility_ , but that is a quality glaringly absent from Derek’s appearance and character.

Derek carries himself with a nobility and assurance that would make his handsomeness irresistible were it not for his distinct lack of expression. Derek’s face resembles nothing more than a finely but tragically carved rock, dour and set and sullen, somehow giving the impression of great internal torment without moving a single facial muscle. The closest thing to visible emotion that Stiles has ever seen on Derek’s features is a pained, pinched look whenever Stiles insists on wearing his green-and-gold cravat with his white dinner jacket, or when Stiles insists on performing drunkenly on the pianoforte in the dining hall, long after any party guests have left.

If Stiles enjoys clinging to those broad, black-clad shoulders for support as Derek half-carries him back to his room, it’s an innocent enjoyment. It’s not as though Stiles has designs on his hateful valet. God forbid. Sometimes, Stiles is almost sure Derek is on the verge of throwing rank and politesse out the window and threatening to garrote Stiles with Stiles’s favorite mauve-and-paisley tie, but some sense of self-preservation stops Derek before he actually assaults his master.

Stiles is always left feeling oddly bereft and disappointed when that happens, when Derek’s fists unclench and he takes a deep breath and levels Stiles with the world’s stoniest glare. It’s so blank as to be a mere stare on most men, but Stiles has learned to correctly identify not only The Glare but also its purpose and intensity. The vast majority of Derek’s words remain unsaid; all Stiles has ever heard him say is, “Yes, sir,” and, “No, sir,” and, “ _No_ , sir,” the last a slightly strained version of Derek’s carefully modulated monotone, evincing Derek’s distress at Stiles’s choice in clothing.

 

 

* * *

 


	12. All The Things She Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dereka and Stiles as lesbian schoolgirls in love. Or lust. Lust, mostly.

* * *

 

 

All Stiles wants is a bit of alone-time in the communal bathroom to get her proverbial rocks off, but of course, the universe is conspiring against her, because someone’s already in there.

The  _worst_  someone that could possibly be in there.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Stiles demands. "It’s after midnight!"

Dereka flips her dripping hair over her shoulder, toweling it dry. “You’re here, too.”

"I’m… here," Stiles trails off, her snappy comeback forgotten, because Dereka’s wearing nothing but panties and a bra - both of which she has clearly just put on - and the bra’s cups are semi-transparent against her damp skin, which means Stiles can ogle her dark, stiff nipples. Not that Stiles is ogling her nipples. Except they’re kind of hard. Very hard, in fact, when contrasted with the soft swell of her breasts.

Fuck. Stiles might not get her rocks off tonight, but she will, at least, depart with plenty of material to get her non-existent rocks off  _to_.

"You haven’t even brought your toiletries with you," Dereka says.

"What?" Stiles asks, mindlessly. Dereka’s panties are see-through, too - a thin, filmy white over the shadow of her pubes, trimmed in a neat inverted triangle.

Dereka’s eyebrows go up, and her lips quirk. They’re very full, those lips. Stupid goddamn Hales and their stupid good looks. Everyone in this boarding school has a crush on one or more of the Hale sisters - whether it’s Laura, the eldest and a newly-minted teacher, or Cora, the youngest and the quietest, or Dereka, the jock in the middle. Stiles isn’t about to deny that she’s had fantasies involving all three of them, but what’s especially infuriating about Dereka is that she’s somehow the centerpiece of those fantasies, even though her personality sucks and she talks in death threats she can only ever smile those creepy, toothy, sociopathic smiles.

"I said," Dereka repeats, slowly, "you haven’t brought your toiletries with you. Just what are you here for?"

"N-nothing," Stiles answers, raising her chin, because she’s damned if she’ll be intimidated outta this place. Dereka’s done, anyway, isn’t she? "Why don’t you leave? You’ve finished showering."

"I can smell you," Dereka says, idly, and then she’s walking toward Stiles, right into Stiles’s space, until Stiles has the weirdest urge to back away. There’s a predatory edge to Dereka’s easy, confident gait, a hungry gleam in her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, we all get that you’re a werewolf. Why that makes some girls swoon all over you, I dunno, but - "

"I can smell how wet you are," Dereka continues, like Stiles didn’t say anything. Dereka’s tall and strong, her muscles sleekly defined thanks to years of lacrosse training, and when she corners Stiles against the bathroom wall, Stiles can feel the warmth of her body. "You were already slightly slick when you got here - thinking of rubbing one off, maybe? - but you’re even wetter now. Like what you see?"

Stiles’s face is red. She doesn’t need a mirror to know how badly she’s flushing. Even her _ears_  feel like they’re on fire. “Not particularly,” she says, but she can’t help glancing downward at Dereka’s unfairly generous boobs, and Dereka smirks.

"You’re a pathetic little liar, Stilinski," Dereka murmurs, her voice going low and velvety-rough. "Do you  _enjoy_  it when I say I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth? Is that why you keep following me around?”

Stiles splutters indignantly. “Me, following you around? It’s  _you_  who happens to be wherever I go, you stalker!”

"At least I don’t have to sneak off to masturbate after my roommate’s asleep."

"Yeah, because you don’t care about waking your roommate up and you  _have no shame_.”

"Shame is useless. Honesty is better. More fun. And what do you mean, wake your roommate up? Allison isn’t a werewolf."

Stiles blinks. “You know who my roommate is?”

But Dereka ignores that question, like it doesn’t matter. “The only way she would even notice you were touching yourself was if you were loud about it.” Dereka slaps her hands on the tiles on either side of Stiles, caging Stiles in. “Tell me. Are you a screamer, Stilinski?”

"Why the hell would you care what I am?" Stiles shoves at Dereka - or tries to - but once her fingers brush Dereka’s breasts, they sort of… stay there. Completely against her will.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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